Then her dagger meets my skin.
CHAPTER TEN
KAEL
Tension snaps tautinside Council Hollow—it always does when we plan for carnage.
Everyone knows this is a fool’s mission. The kind that fools go on when they have nothing left to lose.
“So, the Temple of Endings is inside The Decay?” I double check with Rowan who stands on the outskirts of the Hollow, on edge, jittery as ever.
“Yes, sir,” the Mindweaver says, his eyes changing hues as he sifts through his mental archives. “It’s less a temple, and more a tomb under burial grounds. Buried beneath ancient zarethite and gem mines in the southern region of The Wastes, Your Highness.”
Black Heart Belt.
My father called it both hallowed and cursed.
I know its stories: sacred burial grounds that once drove Zerynthia’s wealth before the curse of The Decay stole the mines and the resting place of the dead. Though the Temple of Endings has never been mentioned.
“Black Heart Belt,” Rowan confirms. “Before the curse, it was the wealthiest mining district in Zerynthia, and the seat of much political power. And of course, the sacred restingplace of those honored with a god’s burial. The Endless War was initiated by battles for the Belt between the Starborn and Earthbound—whoever controlled the Belt controlled the wealth,” Rowan says, reciting archives from his ancestors.
“And whoever controls the wealth, controls the power,” I add. A truth that remains throughout history. But power controls nothing but the men desperate enough to chase it.
“There are mentions, sir,” Rowan interjects, “of spirits grown restless. Some reports speak of hearing voices through the mining tunnels.”
My jaw tightens. I’ve heard The Wastes’ ghost stories intended to scare young children since I was a boy, but The Decay doesn’t just leave ruins—it leaves echoes. Whispers that exist beyond bedtime stories. Whether they’re real or tricks of the mind, I’ve learned not to ignore either.
“Well, that’s not ominous at all,” Ronyn scoffs. “Actually, sounds like it’s right up your alley, Seren. You know, hearing things, spirits, and all that,” he quips, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.
She rolls her eyes, but her affection is evident.
“Why is burial in the Belt so sacred?” Seren asks.
“We lay deities, kings and warriors to rest with our most precious resources to show our respect,” Therion explains. He once spoke of such burials with reverence; after Maldrak took Taali and his little girl, the reverence turned to dust. Gone, along with his wife and daughter.
“Gems, I understand. But zarethite—what is that?” she ponders.
“It’s Old Zerynthian forgod metal,” Therion says. “A metal that only the gods can bestow upon those who are deemed worthy. We forge the rare metal into unbreakable weapons that become bound to its wielder by blood, and no other can wield it without spilling that blood first.”
Seren’s eyes blow wide in awe, and Ronyn nods as if he’s impressed.
I wait for them to ask more, but Daelen cuts in. “So, we’re waking the God of Death in a sacred tomb beneath abandoned mining tunnels and burial sites, right?” He scratches his head, looking tormented. “How the fuck do we know where to go?”
Rowan’s eyes beam again, staring ahead, flicking through memories of our people. “At the very southern edge of the Belt, just beyond a long-abandoned village, you’ll find two sheer rock faces carved through the cliffs. From a distance, it’ll look like nothing at all, until you get close enough to see a small fissure in the rock—that’s your entrance,” he explains. “You could walk past it a hundred times and never know,” Rowan adds. “The Wastes swallowed it whole centuries ago—only those who’ve been shown the way ever find it. Beyond that, no records exist.”
“Well, that sounds like a lovely time,” Daelen claps his hands together sarcastically. “And what then? Make friends with Morrathys and ask him to politely break the curse in exchange for our fucking gratitude and a tankard of ale?”
I pause, internally weighing which version of the truth I wish to share.
“I plan on making a deal,” I finally say, voice like cold steel, brooking no room for argument.
Therion glances at me with a knowing look—he knows I’m up to something. And he knows he won’t like it.
“Lad, I do not like the sound of whatever you’re planning,” Merrik says reluctantly.
I stand then, pressing my hands into Council Hollow’s table, and leaning over it for effect.
“I’m the rightful King of Zerynthia, and I’m not asking for anyone’s fucking opinion. We leave for the Belt in one hour,” I command.
